Destroyed Expectations
by ThatSassyCaptain
Summary: Sherlock is ready for the showdown. The Pool. Midnight. But this mysterious 'Mr. Moriarty' is destroying ALL of Sherlock's expectations! Continuing! No slash, intense violence, or whatever. Crack fic? Maybe. AU? definitely.
1. Who He Thought

_The Pool. Midnight._

The encounter had played out in his mind countless times. He predicted hundreds of outcomes, but nothing quite as startling as his reality.

"_Stop it!"_

The terror in John's eyes is plain. Yet it's deeper than that. Sherlock knows he isn't "good" with "emotions", but the petrified horror in his flatmate's eyes speak of a danger beyond guns and explosions.

_Moriarty_.

It _has_ to be. Something about the man on the other end of the line has John Watson, _a soldier for crying out loud_, scared out of his wits. Their eyes meet just before John speaks again. A warning? He desperately wants to convey _something_- some message to Sherlock- but it's too late.

"Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

Who was this man, that he could strike fear into the hearts of the fearless? Sherlock was beyond curious now. He needed to know. He must see the face of his nemesis.

"Who are you?"

A door clicks at the other end of the pool. Sherlock gasps, then holds his breath. _Footsteps._ No, there was something not right-

"He gave you his number..."

The soft voice reverberates off the walls of the darkened pool. Sherlock knew the voice. He knew the voice, so familiar yet so foreign, and it sent shivers down his spine.

"With all you've put me through, I'm surprised you didn't call."

_High heels._ The clicking footsteps started up again. She stepped out from behind the column, Sherlock's blood ran cold.

"That must be a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket," Molly Hooper began, "because you're never pleased to see _me._"

Sherlock's jaw drops. The gears of his mind shudder and just come to a stop. There's nothing beyond shock. He can't even begin to process...

"Molly Hooper, remember? Hi!"

Sherlock is still completely dumbfounded. This... person was so unlike the Molly Hooper he knew- in every way, shape, and fashion. Gone was the labcoat that smelled faintly of death. Gone, too, were the silly pink outfits, childish smiles, furtive glances. This Molly wore a power suit, skirt pressed, tie straightened, and every bit as spotless as one of Mycroft's best. This Molly had power, and she knew it. She wore it with pride, flaunting the blood-hued lipstick, perfect hair, dazzling eyes. So unlike the Molly he knew.

"Molly? Dear little Molly from the hospital? The lovesick puppy that follows you around, getting samples, signing permits? Am I really so hard to remember?"

The airy lightness in her voice snapped Sherlock's attention away for a moment. It was what John had been trying to tell him. His flatmate was standing stock-still, eyes wide, with the little red dot bouncing around his chest.

Molly Hooper saw the diverted gaze.

"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I've just had my nails done for the occasion. Wouldn't want to get my hands dirty."

Her nails _did_ look fabulous, he had to admit. But the sniper meant that this wasn't a game. This wasn't an elaborate prank put on by Lestrade and the gang. This was real. This Molly was real.

"I tried to give you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. Before I met _you,_ even. I've been a specialist, for some time you see... like you!"

Sherlock couldn't help his words from stumbling as he put the pieces together.

"D-dear... Molly. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister...?"

Molly only smirked.

"Dear Molly. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so, Sherlock."

"_You're_ the consulting criminal?" It was hard to keep the shock at bay.

Molly's smile fell slightly, then lit up again, brighter than before. "Brilliant, isn't it? No one ever gets to me- and no one ever will."

He's composed himself more thoroughly. The idea that sweet little Molly Hooper was actually a mass-murderer was beginning to sink in. "I did!"

"You've come the closest. You were the most fun. Now you're just in my way."

"Thank you."

"You of all people should know I didn't mean it as a compliment."

The words stung slightly, but he didn't know why. Best to just press on and try to find some advantage.

"No... You didn't."

"Bravo, Sherlock. The flirting's over- oh the flirting was just another clever perk to the game... But Mama's had enough now."

The heels click. She's moving closer- _awfully close to John_- and still smiling, bright as a sunbeam.

"I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, darling. Back off."

Her smile broadened. It was genuine, more like that of the other Molly, but with an edge.

"I have so loved this- this little game of ours. Playing smitten Molly from the morgue. Did you enjoy it? The delusion that you had the upper hand?"

"People have died."

"Silly Sherlock, I worked in the morgue. That's what people _DO!"_

John started violently at the sudden change. Even Sherlock felt his nerves tingle and dance. As much as he had relished facing up against this 'Moriarty', he was at a loss for what to do next. His mind was racing. _John bomb John Molly Moriarty Molly?Pips Pool John Midnight Plan! Plan plan- Plans! The plans!_

He reached into his pocket quickly and withdrew the memory stick. Willing his hand not to shake, he offered the files to Molly.

"Take it."

"I was wondering when you'd stumble around to that."

She clicked past John and stopped a few feet away from Sherlock.

"The missile plans."

Her dainty hand with matching blood-red nails reached out and plucked the drive from Sherlock's fingers.

"_Boring_."

Splash.

"I could have got them anywhere."

Sherlock's heart is dropping in his chest when John suddenly breaks from his prison of terror and grabs Molly from behind.

"_ Sherlock, RUN!"_

To John's utter amazement, Molly starts to giggle. The giggling increases, until she's just about howling with laughter, her amusement echoing off the dark walls.

"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. A little something special about the doctor, that I-don't-know, _life_ that your little Molly didn't seem to have. I see. I see."

She turned her attention to the surprised man with the arms around her neck.

"I love a good cuddle as much as the next girl, but you might want to reconsider your choice in dates."

She flicked her head in Sherlock's direction.

"You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson."

John visibly sags at whatever Molly has indicated. _Another sniper. Targeting me. Must be._ John loosens his grip and backs off altogether.

Molly dusts herself off casually, her face a picture of annoyance.

"_Westwood!_ Now, Sherlock, let me tell you what happens if you don't leave me alone."

"Let me guess, I get kil-"

"You will _not_ interrupt me!" Her voice is soft, but the tone is two steps from furious. "Nothing so _obvious_, Sherlock, really." She sighs with an air of disgust. "Well, yeah, I'm gonna kill you someday. I don't wanna rush it though, oh no. I'm saving it up for something special."

She took another step towards Sherlock- mouth smiling, eyes dangerous.

"If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but is stopped by an admonishing snap from Molly.

"And don't you try and tell me you don't have one. No, you're sneaky, manipulative- qualities I so love in a man- and you _say_ you don't have a heart, but we both know that's not quite true."

He drops his gaze. Caught out by the criminal he'd never suspected, and she was right.

"Well. I'm leaving. Appointments with Death, and such. Don't even think about trying to stop me. Not with your _heart_ on the line."

Still slightly dumbfounded, Sherlock watches as Molly walks away. He had to think of something. For the whole round, he'd been outmaneuvered at every play. He had one last chance... Maybe get one good dig in.

"Catch.. .you.. later."

There was silence, and then that horrifying laughter again.

"_No you won't_."


	2. How He Thought

**A/N: YOU PEOPLE ARE THE BEST. I honestly wasn't going to keep this up, but man, the reviews were inspiring! Also, it turns out that I love this story more than I thought. **

**Whatever! Sentiment aside, here's the next bit! Enjoy!**

John wasn't coming out of his room today.

Sherlock knew this- not from the silence reverberating off the walls in the flat, not from the absence of tea, not even from the time _10:48, far too late for John to put off work if he intended to go despite the fact that the 'lovely' receptionist from Brussels works afternoons_- for different reasons entirely.

Last night at around two or three in the morning, he and John had half-walked, half-dragged each other up to the flat. Using the last of his reserves, John somehow got upstairs to his room, where he slammed the door, sending a very clear message. _He's running,_ Sherlock mused, _but not from something he can effectively elude. _No, this monster was swifter than either of them. Exhaustion, paranoia, and tension had been their constant companions for the past few days, heightened now by shocking developments in their case.

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to put his thoughts into words. He was absolutely not going to give his 'sentiments' any thought either. Tense as he was, Sherlock was reluctant to express any of these new ideas to anyone, even John. _Especially not John. He is traumatized. Any sign of weakness on my part will unravel him entirely. John needs some semblance of normalcy to maintain balance, because of… some "normal" "human" thing, that I have expertise in that area. No, not at all. No no no no no_

Sherlock needed something to distract his rapidly down-spiraling mind. He considered playing the violin, but if John was asleep, he would be angry. _Might even shoot me, given his current state. _No, the violin was a poor choice. There was really nothing in the sitting room to occupy his attention. So he did the next logical thing.

The refrigerator door slammed. It was a loud, satisfying noise, that made Sherlock feel weirdly better. He knew he shouldn't be so utterly disappointed, since he did _none_ of the shopping, but he was bored. He gave the door a kick for good measure. There. That would teach it to defy him.

The couch made a squelchy sort of noise when Sherlock hit it face-first. He was terribly bored. _There has to be something I can do. If I calculate any _more_ places of pi, I might actually drive myself insane. Now there's an idea…_ Pushing this dangerous thought aside for the moment, he shot a text to Lestrade.

_Bored. SH_

He stared at his phone, willing it to respond. Lestrade always responded rather punctually. He should have some sort of case that was too far beyond the puny minds of New Scotland Yard. Yes, a master case! Jewel robbery turned murder; objective: catch the thief, recover the jewels? _But the theft would be just a blind for the murder, leading to an entirely different case. The murder was committed violently, but not so violently as to be interpreted as a premeditated crime… No, better! The theft is a cover for the murder which is another blind- we're looking for a blackmailer! Distinctive footprints, shoes from a small Russian marketplace that could only-_

He looked back down at his phone. Had it pinged while he was chasing the wily Soviet blackmailer through his thoughts?

No. It hadn't. Sherlock nearly threw the phone in frustration. It had been several minutes already! At least… three!, surely, by his count. This was unacceptable, so Sherlock tried again.

_Lestrade. SH_

_Lestrade. SH_

_Lestrade do you have a case_

_You know who this is_

_You can't ignore me, I am the world's only consulting(1/3)_

_Detective and I can always just march right down the(2/3)_

_Re and take a case myself. Or light something on fire.(3/3)_

_I have worked arson cases before_

_I know how gasoline works, Lestrade_

_Lestrade_

_Lestrade_

Eventually, he gave up. However, the Union Jack pillow did decide to take a long-distance flight before Sherlock finally settled back on the couch, phone balanced precariously on his forehead. If this went on for much longer, he would consider tearing the flat apart to find those cigarettes…

Footsteps on the stairs prevented arson, and Sherlock shot up off the couch. His hands flailed wildly for his falling phone, but he replaced the mask of cool composure just before the knock came.

"Enter!" He called, in his most dramatic and intimidating voice.

The knob turned. It was Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock nearly collapsed in disappointment.

"Hello dear. You boys had a late one last night, didn't you? How are you feeling? Is John up?"

"No. Haven't seen him since we got home."

Mrs. Hudson made a cooing noise and headed into the kitchen. "I've brought the mail, Sherlock, but I'm only offering it in exchange for my teapot. No where've you put it?"

From the sound of shuffling papers and clinking china, Sherlock deduced that she had found it. Mrs. Hudson shuffled back through to the sitting room, confirming. She was holding the spotless teapot, and for once Sherlock was glad he had managed to remove all the traces of petroleum.

"You've got a note dear. I put it on top of the stack. Looks lovely. Perhaps it's from an admirer…"

Mrs. Hudson smiled at Sherlock's noncommittal grunt. She knew he'd jump at the mail the minute her back was turned, bored as he was. She'd let him keep up the aloof act a little longer. _It makes him feel very mysterious, _she reflected,_ like that bit he does with his collars. I don't think the man owns a coat without them, bless his heart…_ With a final cheery wave, Mrs. Hudson exited 221 B and headed back to her own rooms. However, she did pause on the stairs in time to hear the scuffle of quick feet and moving furniture.

To his credit, Sherlock did not pounce at the stack of papers on the table. He did leap around John's armchair and shove a dining chair out of his way, but he picked through the mail -_bottom items first, heavier items often hold more importance within their greater volume- _calmly making his way to the little note. It was an envelope addressed to him in plain cursive. _Well printed, signifies patience or studious practice: leaning towards the former, based upon the style of envelope. Flowery design- probably a younger woman, no one over thirty would use this style of envelope for real correspondence. _He opened up the envelope- _licked not taped, indicates attachment. More likely an admirer than a client-_ and pulled out the letter. Before checking out the actual contents, Sherlock's mind moved straight to an examination of the stationary. _Pink. Actually, that's about it. No perfume, no special watermarks, just… pink…_ _Oh well. Might as well give it a read._

The note was lined out in the same simple hand, and to Sherlock's surprise read:

_Twinkle twinkle little Greg_

_Hope he likes his new goose-egg_

_Mobsters, fish, and boxes high_

_Can you find him, private eye?_

_Twinkle twinkle lovely view_

_Bet you sang this, didn't you?_

Very much put out by that last line, Sherlock nearly crumpled the envelope in his left hand while studying the annoying nursery rhyme in his right. _Stupid psychological games. Anyone who had heard the song as a child would subconsciously fit the tune to the words… _He studied the message again. Starting with the information he knew, Sherlock began to work out the big picture. The first thing that popped out to him was the solution of the puzzle. _How childish. 'Mobsters, fish and boxes'? Obvious. Coupled with the rhyme and the method of the message's delivery, it obviously refers to Ornithogalum Inc., Ornithogalum being the name of a flower- hence the floral design- and the implied 'star' referring to the Ornithogalum being colloquially known as the 'Star of Bethlehem'.Ornithogalum Inc has a warehouse that hasn't been in particularly active use for some time. Some of the flowers in the genus Ornithogalum are poisonous, indicating danger… That and the thinly veiled threat of the message… No matter! The sender intends for me to find them and this 'Greg' person at or near the warehouse. _

Sherlock raced back into the sitting room and seized John's laptop. A thorough search for 'Greg' brought about no significant results. _Not important, _Sherlock reflected, _whoever this person 'Greg' is, he obviously has some connection to fairy tales or nursery rhymes.. The 'goose egg' must refer to the Golden Goose or Mother Goose or some such nursery rhyme nonsense. The sender seems to have a theme… Perhaps it would be to my advantage…_

Sherlock called up a long-unused domain in an incognito window. John must never know the extent to which he researched children's tales, or how much he thoroughly enjoyed it.

* * *

Several hours later, long after the lunch rush had come and gone, a man in a grey hoodie lounged outside of Speedy's Café. He sipped from a mug of coffee and turned casually through today's paper. There was a loud banging sound from somewhere above him. Seconds later, a man in a long overcoat and scarf rushed out of the neighboring flat and slammed the door behind him. By some magic, the man called a taxi out of thin air and was away in a matter of moments. The diner picked up his cell phone and hit speed-dial 2. Once the connection established, he didn't wait for the greeting he knew he wouldn't get.

"The chicken has flown the coop. He's headed your way."

"_Excellent_." The voice on the other end replied.

"If it's all the same to you, I'm going to order something while I wait for our other chickadee. I can't do this kind of work on an empty stomach."

An exasperated sigh.

"_Whatever you need, so long as it comes out of _your _pocket and doesn't interfere with the job."_

The man broke into a grin. "Gee, thanks, boss!" He said with enthusiasm. "I won't let you down. By the way… Any sign of _my beloved_? Has she made the connection, even without the clues? I'd just love to be able to see her you know…"

This louder, longer sigh was cut short when the boss hung up. The man chuckled. Boy, did he love this job.

When John Watson sprinted out of that same door in a wild panic an hour later, he was thinking not of fairy tales, but of a good friend. He took a cab in the exact opposite direction of his flatmate. The diner left the remains of his early dinner alongside a tip. The food had been excellent, and his day was only getting better. He pulled his hoodie up and got straight to work.

* * *

Sherlock practically flew out of the taxi once he hit the warehouse block. He located Ornithogalum's building almost immediately. _Simple! Childishly simple. Oh well. It's something to do… Now! Back to those clever one-liners. Your goose is cooked? Too cliché, blast it all! _

He arrived at the warehouse not at all out of breath, and stopped to lean on the wall _only_ to survey possible entry points without raising suspicion. Several doors and windows presented themselves. Security seemed seriously lax at Ornithogalum… Recalling the afternoon's research binge, Sherlock remembered that Ornithogalum dealt primarily in glassware, plastics, and containers. Probably not high budget, top secret materials then. But, either way, there was surely an alarm system or something Sherlock would have to look out for. He began slinking along the side of the building, all the while keeping an eye out for security cameras or the arrival of the night watch. The sun was setting, and the diminishing light helped maintain his cover. Hopefully any cameras in the vicinity were only equipped with night vision. Infrared sensors would spot him for sure. Sherlock reached an inconspicuous looking side door and tried the knob. _Locked. Thank goodness. For a moment there, I was worried the security team was comprised of idiots comparable to Anderson. At least they have some semblance of common sense. _Unphased by the lock, Sherlock pulled out the burglary kit from an inner pocket of his coat. With practised skill, he worked the lock. Tumblers turned. Everything fit right into place. Eventually, the knob turned with ease. _Just enough of a challenge_, Sherlock speculated, _if it was any easier, I would be very suspicious indeed. Hmm… Perhaps I need to be more careful than I first thought. This could be a very clever trap after all._

Once inside, Sherlock scanned the darkening building. The first room he encountered was huge. Boxes were piled high up against the walls. Panes of glass, crates marked 'fragile', and rolls of bubble wrap dominated the main floor. He made his way slowly around the storage space. A faint humming filled the air as the automatic night-lights came on. The sounds of whining and clicking fluorescent bulbs emanated from somewhere he could not see. Following a hunch,-_No, a sound deduction. Probability, not instinct governs my actions. I should stop reading John's blog, lest I start picking up more worthless jargon like 'gut-feeling' or 'stealth mode'-_ he headed toward the noise. Several meters in, he saw a light spreading dimly on the floor. He continued. Sherlock rounded a tall stack of crates. In front of him, he found the source of both the light and the noise. Only the squat little offices of the day workers would require light at this time in the evening. The night watchmen are used to dark conditions. Day workers putting in overtime were the only ones who would need so much light. _Day workers or criminal masterminds._

Wary of traps, Sherlock gave the offices a good once-over before moving forward. He avoided the direct light streaming from the half-closed blinds. He could not yet see inside the offices because of the opaque notices taped onto the windows by some lazy office manager. Unevenly hung missives covered much of the glass, but dropped off in frequency towards the top of the window. _A short manager, then. One with a power complex too, or a micromanager, seeing as how he must alert the entire staff to every insignificant change, every regulation, every corporate picnic. How dull._

Sherlock arrived, at last, to the door. He heard no sound other than the bulbs, but as they warmed, even their noise began to diminish. He slid along the wall next to the door. _Hinges on the inside, but the door opens inwardly. _He came up the right side and flattened himself against the wall. Reaching over to the knob, Sherlock turned the handle and pushed. The door swung open without much ado. No shots were fired, curses spewed, or screams elicited. _Must be empty, or I'm expected._ Sherlock poked his head through the doorway. It was a disappointingly average office. Dull as it was, there was still an element of danger. He hadn't yet found his mysterious fairy-tale correspondent.

Sherlock picked his way through the cubicles. Keeping his eye out for any movement, he made sure to take stealthy steps of his own. The area was clear. He moved on to an adjoining door. This one was also unlocked, so he used the same entrance technique as before.

When he finally peeked through the door, he was met with a completely unexpected sight. The manager's office was normal in all respects, except for the enormous glass box in the middle of the floor. What surprised Sherlock more than the box itself was its contents. Inside, knotted securely to a chair, was a rather beat up Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Lestrade?!" Sherlock called, unable to mask his confusion.

Lestrade mouthed something back at him.

"Come again, Lestrade, I can't hear you." He held a condescending hand to his ear for emphasis.

The DI seemed to be shouting furiously, but for the life of him, Sherlock couldn't make out a word.

"_It's just stunning, isn't it, sound proof glass?"_

The office intercom cracked to life like the tension in the room. Sherlock recognized that voice at once, and looked to Lestrade. There must be another speaker in the box, for he was paying close attention to the voice. _I'd know it anywhere._ Sherlock realised as a peculiar feeling bloomed in the pit of his stomach. _ It would probably be in John's nightmares too, if he could actually fall asleep after all this…_

"Molly."

Laughter buzzed over the little, tinny-sounding speaker. "_Very good, Sherlock. And here I thought you might've forgotten all about me, seeing as it took you so very long to get here_."

Sherlock swallowed his rising panic. _How could I possibly forget that laugh? _Repressing a shudder, Sherlock answered in his best scathing monotone.

"I have many more important things to do than play your little games. What have you done to Lestrade?"

"_I've done exactly what I promised. I'm burning out your heart piece by piece. Let's have a little fun, starting with Greg here."_

Sherlock scoffed. "Greg? I don't know any Gregs." The snarky expression was plain on his face as he turned. "And Lestrade here's hardly-"

He stopped short, seeing Lestrade, red in the face and yelling something Sherlock could not hear at all. After a moment, his lip-reading skills yielded one '_Greg is my name, you great bloody'_ and then whatever garbled nonsense followed. Sherlock felt himself getting just a touch warmer under the collar. When the speaker system came to life again, Molly had thankfully decided not to come anywhere near that debacle.

"_Sherlock, I'm going to get straight to business. No wasting time or dragging your feet. Tonight, you're getting that heart burn we were discussing. Now, we're going to play this game out straight and simple. There's a bomb in the room. Greg darling knows where it is. But- oh… Looks like he can't tell you. You'll have to work it out yourself, I'm afraid. Good luck, honey. Give my regards to your cute little doctor if you make it out of here alive. Toodles!"_

The speaker crackled off. Sherlock's lips tightened into a thin line. His eyes traveled back over to Lestrade, who was quietly fuming and struggling against his bonds. Sherlock took a moment to look closer at the DI. His face was bruised all over, with a little lump forming on his left temple… _Oh! THAT kind of goose-egg. Hmm._ The ropes were expertly tied, allowing for little or no significant movement. A few drops of blood were spattered on the floor, but whether they were from Lestrade's colorful lacerations or raw wrists, Sherlock couldn't tell. Either way, Lestrade was in a great deal of discomfort. _Probably been here for hours. Since this morning at lea- Oh. _The pieces all fell into place. _Stupid, stupid! One thousand times an imbecile! Oh even Anderson would've figured it out an AGE ago! I've been a fool!_ With a rising lump in his throat, he turned back to Lestrade. The DI was talking, talking so fast that Sherlock couldn't make out a word. Lestrade's face was lined with stress, no doubt the stress of the last several _yes several, my goodness, SEVERAL! _hours spent in that cramped position. Sherlock found the Detective Inspector's eyes. When Lestrade met his gaze, Sherlock calmly held up a hand. It was a command, and a promise. _Stop talking. I WILL get you out of this._ He stepped up closer to the glass and examined it. It was _very_ sound proof and fairly thick. He probably couldn't break it easily. Even if he could, it was a waste of valuable time. He rapped on the glass to get Lestrade's attention again. The DI looked up at him. Sherlock started gesticulating in an attempt to communicate, but Lestrade quickly shook his head. _He understands me about as much as I understood him. This calls for another tactic…_

Sherlock began miming. He held up two fingers. Lestrade nodded and mouthed '_two words'_. Sherlock nodded once in affirmation. _Thank the Lord for John's inane office parties. I will have to thank him later for not giving me the chance to delete the rules of 'Charades'._ He then pulled off his scarf in one fluid motion and began fanning himself with an empty hand. After a moment, Sherlock saw it click with Lestrade. '_Hot!'_ Sherlock gave two thumbs up and continued. Next, he hunched his shoulders and rubbed his arms furiously. Lestrade caught onto this one much quicker. '_Cold! Hot and Cold!' _Sherlock almost sighed with relief. This was the only way he could think of effectively communicating with Lestrade that would lead in a quick and efficient search for the bomb. Lestrade nodded vigorously, indicating he was ready to begin.

Sherlock started by taking several steps backward. Lestrade was still nodding. '_Warm…warmer' _Sherlock watched the instructions play out on the DI's lips. '_STOP!' _The order was plain and simple. Sherlock was halfway between the box and the door, lined up on either side with a water cooler to his left, or a filing cabinet and a shelf to his right. He made for his left.

'_COLD!'_

Pretty clear, then. He shifted directions and headed to the right.

Lestrade began nodding once more. '_Warmer.. warmer…'_

Sherlock came right up to the filing cabinet and the shelf. Lestrade was bobbing his head, but not mouthing anything. Sherlock frowned. He took a tentative step backward. No, Lestrade's adamant '_COLD'_s were clue enough. He took a confident step forward, only to be met with more head shaking. His frown deepened. Pondering this development, Sherlock crouched to get a look at the floor. If there were any scrapes along-

A flurry of movement caused him to look up again. Lestrade appeared to be yelling.

'_COLD! Colder! Cold, Sherlock, Cold!'_

Down is… cold? Then that means…

Sherlock tilted his head upward and caught the massive approval on Lestrade's face. Sure enough, the tile directly above was 0.5 centimeters askew from its proper position. Sherlock mounted the cabinet, gangly limbs getting twisted and bent in an almost comical manner. He felt confident enough in his deduction to now ignore the increasingly animated Detective Inspector. _But maybe… _He looked over and saw only smiles and chants of '_HOT'._ He quirked a corner of his moth upward to reassure Lestrade.

Wobbling slightly on the cabinet, Sherlock ascended the next step up onto the wooden shelf. It creaked._ Shifted. Quite a bit._ For a tense moment, Sherlock didn't dare to breathe. He was perched a good seven feet off the floor. An awkward fall could do some serious damage, not to mention that if he broke the shelf, he'd have to resort to other methods of reaching the high ceiling. He didn't turn his attention to Lestrade again this time. The worry and fear would be plainly visible on his face, an agonized- _NO! Concentrate! This is his only chance._

Thankfully, the shelf only shifted. Sherlock sighed with relief and after a moment of indecision, looked over his shoulder. Lestrade had relaxed visibly. _Good,_ and Sherlock continued. He straightened up on top of the shelf and easily reached the ceiling. The next shock came when he shifted the tile and was met with a _rapidly falling bomb_. Eyes widened in terror, Sherlock grasped at the thing and managed to get ahold of it. He clutched it tightly to his chest before remembering his peril. Thrusting the device to arm's length, Sherlock backed his way off the shelf and down onto the floor. He examined the bomb.

The kitchen timer affixed to the front was ticking down from one minute.

_Whatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhat_

He looked frantically towards Lestrade. The DI returned his panicked gaze and shrugged. Knowing no other course of action, Sherlock tucked the bomb under one arm and tore out for the door.

He sprinted out of the lit offices in to the blackness of the main floor. Recalling much of the warehouse's layout and bumbling through the rest, Sherlock found a familiar stack of crates.

'_Bulletproofing' _one of them read. He tossed the bomb haphazardly into the middle of the stack, letting it bounce down to the center of the wooden cube-pile. Then, Sherlock took off in a dead sprint. He had nearly made it to the offices again when there was a loud booming noise and a flash. Pieces of charred wood began to spear wildly down at his head. Sherlock lunged for the door. He flung it open, catching several projectiles with the motion. Once there was another barrier between him and the explosion's fury, Sherlock remembered Lestrade. He took off at a quick trot for the inner office. Lestrade was exactly where he had been left, no more surprises.

_Now, _he considered, _the problem of the glass box…_ A cursory glance of the room left him shockingly little to deal with. There were the obligatory office supplies, a mug or two, the filing cabinet and shelf staircase, and plenty of paper. Staring this roadblock in the face, Sherlock elected to examine the box itself more carefully. The first thing he noticed was the back wall, and how it was starkly different from the other three. First off, it wasn't glass at all, but a plank of dense wood with some sort of fabric attached to the inside. This was the weak point. Sherlock peered inside at Lestrade. The DI was slumped a bit in his chair, looking very tired and very sore. Seeing how Lestrade would be little or no help in this, and how there was a pressing need for alacrity, Sherlock concentrated on the fourth wall. _The statistical weak points are the corners and edges. If there were hinges, I would go for those first. Seeing as how there are none…_ Sherlock gripped the top edge of the wall and pulled. At first, he was met with solid resistance. After a moment of straining, however, something started to give. The top edge was sliding out. Slowly, Sherlock eased the fourth wall apart from the box ceiling. He readjusted his grip to the sides and began dragging the wall outwards. All at once, there was nothing holding the fourth wall on. Sherlock was promptly flattened.

He pushed and rolled. The wall returned gravity's embrace with a thud. Pausing only momentarily to dust himself off, Sherlock rushed over to Lestrade. From what he could tell, some of the blood on the floor had come from _both_ the lacerations _and_ raw wrists. Apart from that, Lestrade still looked really, really not good. He leaned weakly back in the chair as Sherlock took to unfastening rope. _Uneasy breathing in sharp, unsteady bursts. Rib damage: likely. Throat damage? After being trapped in a sound proofed box for hours on end, I would say: definitely. He won't be barking orders much in the near future. Unfortunately, that mean no one will shut Anderson up either…_

He finished the last of the bonds while half-contemplating the likelihood of England's fall in the next couple of days. To his astonishment, Sherlock watched as Lestrade took the opportunity to fall over onto the floor. _No no no, this is NOT GOOD. Have to get him up… get him to hurry… but how?_

"Really, that's hardly dignified, Lestrade. You're an officer of the law, not some drunkard."

He received a harsh grunt that was, in all probability, swearing, but the DI's hoarse throat kept him from cursing as eloquently as he might wish. Sherlock attempted to help him get to his feet. To his credit, Lestrade managed to get upright on his own power. The whole front half of the box had now become an obstacle, so Sherlock and the DI made their way out the back and into the offices. It was upon reaching the door that Sherlock remembered.

"Oh yes. The fire."

The warehouse was ablaze.

He chuckled, attempting to hide the full-throttle racing of his heart. "See, Lestrade? I told you I knew how to handle an arson."

Lestrade's eyes rolled back and it took all of his pride and dignity to keep him from giving up right then.

"Don't be so glum. We just have to pick our way _around _the smouldery bits and we should be just fine." Sherlock hitched Lestrade's arm over his own shoulders, ignoring the painful groan the action elicited. _Now is NOT the time for sentiment! Get Lestrade to the hospital first, and 'sentiment' later! _They made a hobbling mad-dash for the nearest uncharred exit.

Fortunately for the two men and the reputations of the night watchmen, the police had been quickly called and were already arriving on the scene. _Thank heavens. An ambulance. If I would have had to carry him to the hospital, he might have-... I mean I wouldn't have bothered! Walking is… boring…!_

Since the balancing force of goodness and crap luck in the universe was having a field day, it surprised Sherlock not at all to find himself face to face with Sally Donovan.

"Sally, are you having me tracked, or are you just accustomed to picking me out from a crowd?"

"I'd rather pick you out from a crowd than from under a charcoal heap, Freak."

"Fair enough."

Breaking into the social circle were paramedics, who carted off Lestrade with ceremony and insisted Sherlock stay after class to get his lungs checked. 'No-thank-yous' and 'get-your-bloody-hands-off-or-so-help-me's were exchanged, with the obligatory 'you're-not-my-mother-go-worry-over-Lestrade' and the 'see-you-in-the-hospital' parting sentiments at the end. Sherlock elbowed a man gracefully in the stomach and ran away. _Have to get back to the flat. If Molly is really after my heart, then…_

He was neatly interrupted by Donovan again, before sentiment had the chance to overwhelm him. She looked tired. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but not from the smoke. She just stood. Stood in front of him like a roadblock. Arms crossed over her chest combatively, but shoulders sagging in a way that lacked much fight, she looked him square in the eye. This was one roadblock Sherlock couldn't just brush past.

"Why?"

It was her only question. Emotions flicked across her face, dancing in the light of the nearby conflagration. Sherlock took a good look at her for the first time. _Exhausted. Stressed. Been crying recently, no, she's been crying frequently over the course of the last several hours. This… incident… has seriously worried her._

"Why…" The word tumbled out while his brain was wrapping up the deductions. "Why… Because… because…" For once, his silver tongue was failing. The raw emotion on Sally's face was not reflected on Sherlock's countenance, but on his heart. With an encompassing feeling of dread, he realized just how devastating Molly's campaign could turn out to be. He shook the thought violently from his head. Right here, and right now, he needed to tell Donovan something. He was considering the dire consequences of being delayed here. _Back to Baker Street, I must… _Drawing the curtains of his mind tightly closed, Sherlock composed himself. All this took less time than it did to blink, but in the split second, Sally noticed. Something changed on her face. Confusion started mixing its wa in amongst the worry. _It will turn to suspicion, it always does. I have to end this._

"Because, Sally," he started, "I got him out."

It was not the answer she was looking for. Frankly, it didn't even make sense. He tried again.

"I got him out. And, I wouldn't have left that building alive if he couldn't."

Sally blinked. Understanding dawned. But she surprised him when she spoke.

"For… for the case."

"Yes… Of course it was for the case. I would never… never abandon a case. Not an important one."

Their eyes met again, and Sally understood. The meaning of her words did not escape him. The underlying message was plain.

"I see. I just figured you would get bored- Sorry. None of that is… You won't give up this case?"

Sherlock turned his gaze ice hard. "Never."

He walked away uninhibited.

"I'll take over this part of it… The case… I'll… keep watch." Sally's voice was quiet compared to the sirens, but Sherlock heard. He kept walking.

* * *

Halfway across town, John Watson found himself in a bit of a situation. It was getting late. The sun was setting. He had a general idea of where he was, along with the location of the nearest Police Constable. Everything had been going smoothly so far, except for the part about his best friend and equally-good-friend-who-he-didn't-live-with being missing, and all.

After the flat had been far too quiet for far too long, John had gotten up to make tea. What he had found on the kitchen table besides the usual experiments or appendages shocked him. _Greg. Holy… It's talking about Greg! Whoever this is has Greg! Does Sherlock know? _ He figured Sherlock was probably already there, deducing it out. In a rush, John dressed, grabbed his coat, and dashed out the door. He hailed a cab and headed the only place he could think of. _The open-air market at that… festival thing… has to be it. It's the only thing that even kind of makes sense._

Turns out, there was no sign of either Lestrade or Sherlock anywhere near there. Now, John Watson was strolling through a dimly lit back alley, pondering his predicament. Sherlock wasn't answering his phone, and neither was Greg Lestrade. _I hope nothing serious happened. Who am I kidding. This is a disaster. _John worked hard to calm his breathing. It wouldn't do Sherlock and Greg any good if he hyperventiliated in some back alley far away. _Calm down. Calm down and think. What would Sherlock say?_

He rounded a corner and ran right smack into someone. Staggering and apologizing, John looked up to see who he'd barreled into. Thankfully, it was a tall, friendly sort of fellow with sandy hair, kind eyes, and a chipper grin, not a shiv-toting Russian mobster. The man held out a hoodie-sleeved arm in a placating gesture, at the same time offering balance to John if he so needed it.

"Sorry! Gosh, I wasn't looking where I was going. Ha… Here I am, whistling a pretty tune and mowing down strangers. Sorry, again." The stranger apologized even more than John had. Surprised by the kindness, John extended his hand. The man gladly accepted the handshake.

"No hard feelings, mate. I wasn't exactly paying attention either."

"Good, because you'll never see this coming."

"Sorry, what?"

The man in the hoodie gripped John's wrist and hauled him forward, spinning the smaller man into a tight headlock. John fought the stranglehold with his other hand, but the stranger's grip was too strong. His other arm was being pulled up behind his back. John started seeing spots, so he lashed out backwards with his feet. Catching the trick before it panned out, the stranger leaned back and lifted. John felt his feet leave the ground. He flailed around for a foothold or contact point, but found none. In a fit of desperation, he slammed his head backwards and made contact with his assailant's nose. All that earned him was a wounded gasp and a sudden wrenching of his captured arm. John stiffened and gritted his teeth.

"Sorry mate, I really am, but it's got to be done, y'see. This is my job. Love it to death, I do, but sometimes it calls for a bit of rougher persuasion but- aw, you know 'xactly what I'm gettin' at here. See, I think you and I understand each other, I really think we do. It's all business, nothing personal."

If it hadn't been for his absorption in pain and slowly failing vision, John would have noticed the honestly sincere tone in his attacker's voice. Instead, he opted to get one final question out.

"Who… are you?" He croaked.

"Shoot! Here I am incapacitating a feller, and I haven't even introduced myself!" He let out an astonished laugh at his own lapse in etiquette and cleared his throat.

"The name's Sebastian Moran. Pleased to meet you!" John could almost hear the grin in his voice.

But, the last thing John recognized wasn't the name, but the military precision with which he was finally rendered unconscious. _This guy is a pro… Heaven help Sherlock…_

**A/N: Gosh, that was long! I'm sorry for the 6k+ word count but... I just couldn't bear to leave it off anywhere else!**

**Oh no! Looks like Molly-arty is taking a different approach to burning Sherlock's heart. Will Lestrade recover? Has Mrs. Hudson been inadvertently poisoned by her careless lodger? _Who is Sebastian Moran's beloved? _All of these questions and more will be answered in the next installment!**

**Please, if you can, tell me any errors I have made. I'm not a terribly careful writer, and to add to the confusion, my computer doesn't have a spell-checker. I've scrutinized it pretty well before posting, but you, yes you, can nit-pick my grammar to your dictionary's content. I won't be offended. I will be overjoyed. **


	3. What Everyone Was Thinking

**A/N: Finally, the update! I've been super busy with getting the school year wrapped up and whatnot, but I've made time to go over this chapter again and again until I was sick of checking it! **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It was well into the night when the cab pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street. A slightly soot-covered Sherlock Holmes stepped out onto the sidewalk. He all but threw a wad of notes at the cabbie before taking off for his flat. The front door was locked. _Key, key, keykeykey. Where did I put it? _Unfortunately, it was nowhere to be found. He was too lazy to pull out his burglary kit. Sherlock pounded on the door.

"John! JOHN! Hmm. MRS. HUDSON! IT'S _ME_, LET ME IN." No answer. He gave the door a few more half-hearted slaps while he thought. _Lock-picking it is, then._ The kit unfurled in his hand and the door was open in a moment. Practices at his flat had been frequent. He climbed the front steps and-… abruptly stopped. He could go no further.

The entire foyer was covered in yarn. Strands stretched tightly from one wall to the other, zigzagging across the room. The staircase was blocked entirely. Yarn was so thickly layered about the side wall and staircase railing that he could not see to the next landing. Sherlock paused to examine a nearby strand more closely. _Knitting yarn, medium brown, a fairly cheap brand sold commonly in knitting shops. _He deduced right away that this must be some sort of trip-wire system. _Not a prank. John hasn't the patience and Mrs. Hudson lacks the dexterity…_ On the subject of his landlady, where was she? There was no way she could have set this up, or gotten back through it for that matter. John must still be asleep upstairs. _Very asleep. Someone would've made noise, certainly, setting this up. _Sherlock's gaze drifted to the left. There was a somewhat navigable path from the front door to the door of Mrs. Hudson's rooms.

_So that's how this is going to be._

Sherlock took a deep breath and began. The coat had to come off first; there's no way he was making it through with the extra weight and movement. He stepped up to the first strand and ducked. Threading his way through the yarn maze was trickier than he had thought. The strings were hung from what looked like tiny plastic hooks on the walls. If he disturbed a string too much, it would come loose from the tack, slacken the rest off significantly, and… _what? What is waiting on the other side of that door?_

Sherlock could hazard a guess that it was explosives, but there was no way to be sure. After ducking under another strand he eased his way up, only to feel the touch of a wire on his hair. He froze. Muscles tensed involuntarily and Sherlock barely dared to breathe. Ever so slowly he backed down, inching his head forward in order to avoid that particular trap. He was splayed a bit, at this point. One foot arched all the way up to the toes, balancing him in the center of this web. His other stood flat, but was cramping from the strain placed on his ankle, which tilted crazily to provide room for his knee. One hand rested on the wall, while the other supported his weight rather awkwardly. His right hand was pushed to the floor, directly under his hip. He had just the strength to keep it there. Not quite enough for a boost. His mobile started buzzing in his pocket, but he ignored it. Not that he could get to it anyway. He was effectively frozen in the web until the matter of his head could be sorted. This _was_ a diabolical trap. A veritable dream catcher of horror.

Sherlock leaned his head forward. He craned his neck around until he was sure he was clear. Studying the terrain before him, he readied his backmost foot. Throwing all his energy against the ground, Sherlock sprung forward and executed a sharp somersault. Momentum spent, he pulled to a stop and flicked his head upwards. A shaky sigh of relief barely fluttered the strand brushing the tip of his nose. Sherlock reared back a bit. He was nearly to the door. He straightened up. There was available head room. He began picking his way through the rest. A hop, skip, and a jump later, he was standing free and clear in front of Mrs. Hudson's door. He brushed himself off, steeled his nerves, and turned the knob.

* * *

Greg Lestrade was at the hospital. He'd been properly wrapped, bandaged, and stitched by various medical personnel. He was due to be released pretty soon. A nurse had told him that all the final checks were nearly done. For now, Lestrade sat on the side of his hospital cot and sighed. He had been up for hours, received the business end of a baseball bat to the head and ribs- _'Yes!' he had assured the paramedics, 'It was a bloody BASEBALL bat' much to their confusion_-and stuffed inside a soundproof box. A kindly nurse had given him throat spray and several over-the-counter recommendations. He was definitely going to be sore for days.

To his surprise, Sally Donovan chose this moment to enter. She leaned up against the outer wall of the room, checking him over.

"Don't- don't worry. They have me on the good drugs." Lestrade croaked out his joke and cracked a smile. Donovan didn't seem convinced. He sounded like a choking toad. The both of them were silent for a moment.

"You were gone for hours."

"It was hardly my fault."

"Of course not!" Sally almost shouted, sounding much more frustrated than defensive. "Of course it isn't your fault! You were _kidnapped_ and _beaten_ all because of that- that…" In the end, she couldn't bring herself to say it. Even after all _he_ had put her through, after all the insults, crime scene dramas, embarrassing deductions, she couldn't say it. He'd shut that nonsense down when it had really counted. He had been the first responder, and unltimately saved the day. He'd come through for her boss when no one else could have. She couldn't fault him for this. But, that didn't mean she wasn't furious.

"Sorry…" Lestrade's raspy voice brought her out of her internal debate.

"Don't apologize." It wasn't a request, it was a command, and Lestrade took it. _Shows just how exhausted he is._ _He's been working late, doing all the extra paperwork that was 'too boring' to be filled out by… by other parties. If there's anyone this shouldn't have happened to, it's Greg. Goodness knows he doesn't deserve it._

"So, Anderson's black eye…?" Lestrade looked up at her, both concern and confusion mixing in his eyes. "He dropped by a little while ago and I didn't get a chance to ask."

Sally sighed. "I punched him."

"You _what?_" The incredulous question was cut off by a short bout of coughing which turned to shallow laughter. Sally couldn't help but smile, despite her dark mood.

"Yeah, he was being a pest so I told him to take a hike. He didn't take the hint. I socked him."

Lestrade dropped his head into his hands, shaking with almost silent laughter.

Sally's smile widened. "Don't worry about the fallout. I've got several witnesses that'll swear it never happened." Her boss was gone now, completely lost in mirth. Violent giggles threatened to topple him. She remembered the other reason for her visit and held out the bag she'd carried in.

"One of the PCs dropped by your house for a change of clothes. I stuck your mobile in there- found it on your desk. A bunch of texts, a few missed calls. Figured you'd want to check in, just in case there was something important." Lestrade nodded and stood, going to meet her halfway for the bag. He swayed a bit, and Sally lunged forward, ready to catch her boss if he decided to make advances with the floor. Thankfully, he kept his balance.

"Sorry, sorry…" He made a gravelly apology and waved her off. "Just stood up too quickly. Give that here."

He went into the little restroom to change, and Sally waited outside impatiently. _He can take his time; it's not that I'm worried about. If he's locked the door, there's no way to get to him quick if something happens. One of those doctors said he'd got a concussion, on top of everything else. If he-"_

Sally's paranoid thoughts were thankfully interrupted when Lestrade walked back out in one piece. He had on a clean suit, which did wonders for his previously disheveled appearance. Of course, all of the bruises were still there, and livid too. Nothing much to do about that besides wait. Lestrade set the bag back on the cot and checked his mobile.

"24 new messages, 11 of which are from Sherlock. No news here. One from you, one from Gregson, four from- hang on…"

Four new messages from John Watson. Not extraordinary in itself, but their content…

_Hey Greg, Sherlock got a weird note. Everything OK?_

_Haven't seen Sherlock. Are you on a case?_

_Greg is everything alright?_

_Greg, call me when you get this._

But, John _hadn't_ been at the warehouse. 7 missed calls, 2 of which were also John. 4 new voicemails. One John's. Lestrade knew it probably contained much of the same, but a nagging feeling in his stomach made him press the call button anyhow.

John's voice crackled over the tiny speaker. Sounds of traffic could be faintly heard in the background. _Maybe he's in a car then? A cab probably._ John was short and to the point, but Lestrade didn't miss the note of worry in his voice.

"_Greg? Hey, mate, it's John. Sherlock got a weird note in the mail- said something about you and fish… I think it's some kind of threat. Sherlock left without a word, so I don't know where he's gone off to. I'm heading down to the festival on the other side of town. I think the note had something to do with the fish market they've got going on over there… Greg, I think it's a mob threat, or something. Call me back when you get this, or if you get a hold of Sherlock. He's not answering his mobile either. I hope everything's alright. See you when I see you. Bye."_

Lestrade paled. Sally must've noticed, because she took a step forward, ready to catch him again. He lowered his phone and took a shaky breath.

"Greg? What's wrong?"

The concern in her voice brought him back to attention.

"It's John… He wasn't with Sherlock at the warehouse… Went off on his own about some _mob threat_ or something. I've got to get a hold of him… or Sherlock."

Lestrade punched in John's number. The call went straight through to an automated voicemail message. _Phone's off then. Or… or disabled somehow…_

He hit speed-dial 3 and waited. The call rang out, and he was left with Sherlock's voicemail greeting.

"_You've reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. If you found this number on the website, try commenting there or on John's blog. If this is Mycroft again, I will delete your message. Otherwise, please leave your name and number and I will ignore it as well. Good day."_

He felt sick, and it wasn't just the repercussions of his violent evening.

"Greg. Greg, you OK? Look at me…"

He turned sharply to look at Sally and she leapt back in surprise.

"Sally… Sally I have to go. I've got to get out there as fast as possible." He shouldered the bag and made for the door. Sally, quicker than he, and unhindered by bruised ribs or a concussion, blocked the exit.

"No way, boss. You're _not_ running around. Not so soon after you've been attacked."

"Sally, _listen to me!" _The rough half-shout stopped her in her tracks. "John's in big trouble, if my hunch is right-"

"Wait, you're running out of the hospital on a hun-"

"Donovan! Shut up, and listen for a second! Something big is going on here and John might be in trouble. I'm going to check on Sherlock. As far as I know, he's gone back to Baker Street without any kind of medical attention. I also need to see for myself if he's OK. If this voicemail's anything to go by, John is in real danger. I think he was led into a trap."

"Voicemail?" Sally's voice was much smaller, after listening to her boss' gruff tirade.

Greg played the message for her. Her eyes widened as she saw the significance of the calls.

"Now, I've got a job for you. It might just be the most important you've ever had, so listen close. There are lives in the balance on this. Goodness knows I almost died tonight. I don't want this bomber to get their hands on anybody else." He cleared his throat and took another breath. "Seargent Donovan, I need you to go find John Watson."

She blinked once in surprise, but nodded. "And where are you going?"

"Baker Street. I think there's more to this than meets the eye. Unfortunately, there's only one man in London who has the answers I need." He gave her a brief nod before making his way out the door. Sally exhaled deeply. _Time to get back to work._

* * *

A jostling sensation welcomed John back to consciousness. He was lying almost face-down on a rough, lumpy cloth surface. He felt sore and stiff all over. One of the first sensations he was aware of was intense cold. The chill was concentrated on his neck and chin, which was highly unusual. John tried to reach his hand up and get a second feel at it, but was immobile. The surface he was laying on jolted. _I'm in a car. I'm in someone's car. _Swallowing his panic, John kept his eyes closed and started working out his predicament. He couldn't call out for the duct tape stuck firmly over his mouth. His hands were tied tightly behind his back with something like a scarf or a handkerchief. A quick test proved his feet were secured in the same fashion. As John squirmed, he felt a pressure across his chest and legs. _I'm… I'm seat-belted in. What._ And something else. He was covered by a blanket or towel. Everywhere except his face, he could feel the heavy fabric draped over him.

The low humming he had been aware of previously had picked up volume. _That's not the engine. That's… the driver?_ The loud tenor voice picked up into full-out song, and John had to open his eyes. It was incredibly dark, save the dim light from the dashboard and displays. John could see the driver- a tall man with curly blond hair- much shorter than Sherlock's- and a dark hoodie. His face was turned toward the road, so John couldn't get a better look at him. His voice rang out over the rumbling of the engine. John had no trouble hearing every word.

_Rocky Mountain, Rocky Mountain, Rocky Mountain high!_

_When you're on that Rocky Mountain, hang your head and cry._

_Do, do, do, do! Do remember me._

_Do, do, do, do! Do remember me._

He was a bit of a rubbish singer, this kidnapper, but loud enough to drown out any noise John would make, apart from opening the car door, or attacking this fellow from behind. He tried shifting his feet first, to get some room to work with. His shin connected with something hard, and there was a loud _thump_ as the object hit the floor board. The singing immediately stopped, and the driver turned to look at him. John briefly thought about faking unconsciousness some more, but it wouldn't do any good now. The first thing John noticed was the purple splotch radiating out from a plaster on the man's nose. _Oh. I did that. Oh boy. Am I in for it now._ To his utter surprise, the man _smiled _at him.

"Good evening, Doc! How'ya holdin' up?" He drawled to the back seat. John's eyes widened in surprise and he shifted his shoulders to try and sit up.

"Hey hey now, none of that! You'll dislodge everything, and I can't hardly stop the car an' help you." The car swerved as a big hand settled on John's topmost shoulder and pushed him back into the seat. John felt the cold envelop his throat again, and he tried to struggle away.

"Cut that out. You're a doctor, Doc. You should know that the ice pack'll do you more good than harm. I hated to bruise you up so bad, but you weren't bein' anything else than ornery. This's the least I can do."

John stopped struggling. It certainly was cold. After shifting a bit, he heard the thing crinkle. _It's a bag of frozen peas. But… it does feel good. I suppose it's alright. Not everybody who kidnaps me is ever so polite about it. This guy could give Mycroft lessons. _He blinked up at this strange criminal… Moran, wasn' it? What kind of lunatic was he, and worse still, who was he working for?

Moran started whistling as he reached for the air conditioning knob. He stopped suddenly, and called back to John. "You too hot back there, Doc? I know you've got the blanket on you, but that's the boss' orders, not my call. If you're gettin' warm, I can crank up the air a bit? You good?"

As soon as Moran turned to look, John shook his head. The ice-pack-fleece-blanket combo wasn't bad. He was actually fairly comfortable, despite being tied down in the back of a smallish SUV driving off goodness-knows-where in the _blackest hours of night no no this is bad. This is very, very bad._ John drew in a deep breath through his nose. _I have to get out of this. What to do, what to do…_ John got focused. He started looking around the interior of the SUV for anything useful within his reach. The vehicle smelled of frequent camp-outs and fishing trips. An empty sack of crisps was shoved under the passenger seat, next to a half-empty water bottle. A pair of rather large boots sat on the other side near John's feet. _Nothing. Literally nothing useful here. Either Moran is a tidy camper, or an incredibly dangerous professional. For all I know, he could be driving me out into the country to kill me and quietly dispose of the body. Maybe we're headed to a rendezvous with a mob boss, or worse…_

John didn't have much more time for contemplation. The SUV was beginning to slow. Moran turned the wheel, and the road changed. The smooth pavement was replaced by bumpy gravel. John tried to turn his head and get a look at the landscape, but the blanket prevented him from seeing anything. Moran noticed his movement. John took a look at his face for the first time since the alleyway. Disregarding the splotchy bruise on his nose, Moran had an honest look about him, like the kind of person you'd trust your kids with. _Wasn't that one of the characteristics of psychopaths? They seem trustworthy at first, and then dismember you? _ But Moran seemed different. Wary of Stockholm syndrome and it's symptoms, _bloody ice pack,_ John tried to get a good read on Moran's character. His jaw was set and determined. Possible moral conflict, but determination to follow through with his duty nonetheless. _Duty. Loyalty… This man is an ex-soldier if I ever saw one. Hope the mirror hasn't been lying to me all this time…_

As he watched, Moran's face changed. Some sudden thought brought his buoyant mood behind a mask of stone. This scared John more than anything he'd seen yet tonight. _What could possibly chill this chipper sort of a kidnapper? If he's a psychopath, then he should be having a blast, right?_

"You seem like an awfully nice feller, Doc. I hate to have to do this to you, but orders are orders." He didn't look up from what he was doing. John began to worry. Moran reached into the armrest compartment and retrieved a bottle and a washcloth. A cold fear gripped John's heart as he realized what was about to happen. _No. Not again. I have to fight this. First rule- don't let them get you to a second , that's passed. Second rule- don't let them bloody knock you out again! I have to get out NOW!_ John struggled furiously in the backseat while Moran got to work. Whistling to the tune of that 'Rocky Mountain' song he'd been singing before, Moran poured a good amount of liquid from the bottle onto the cloth, measuring it out to some degree. Then, he replaced the bottle tidily and opened the driver's side door. It slammed shut with an awful finality. The whistling had taken on a terrifying tone, and John was glad to be rid of it, if only for a moment.

_Last chance, soldier. It's now or never._ Moran seemed to be taking his time getting around the car. John arched backward to try and undo the seatbelt. No dice. As he was about to give up, his fingers brushed across something small and hard. He grasped it, turning the thing over in his fingers. _A pocket-knife! Oh, you're certainly a prepared camper, Sebastian Moran! _But, he didn't have time to try and get loose. His best bet was to hide it. _Somewhere Moran won't check…_ John brought up his arms and found the waistband of his jeans. He tucked the pocketknife on his right side, near his hip. _If he even checks, an ex-soldier or security guard would check the left side out of habit, or the back of the waistband. Right hip is the last place anyone would … at least it's my best shot._ John heard, rather than saw, the door next to his head open moments later. He could feel Moran's presence looming over him. The kidnapper spoke.

"This is going to be the awkward part. I'm sorry, Doc. Orders are orders."

* * *

Sherlock sucked in a breath through his teeth. He'd just done more acrobatics than he would on a case. What met him on the other side of the door, however, had more to do with his winded-ness than anything else. Mrs. Hudson's kitchen was a disaster. Yarn was strewn _haphazardly_ across tables, chairs, even the refrigerator. Colors mixed and tangled at every intersection. Only one thread of the original sandy brown was visible in the mess. It zagged taut an inch above the linoleum, threading around a cabinet knob, and finally meeting the left-hand wall. The solitary strand multiplied to form a dense web of yarn effectively blocking off one empty corner of the kitchen. Well, almost empty. Inside the fuzzy tan cage stood one rather frightened landlady. She was leaning against the back wall of her prison, positioned as far away from the sensitive wiring as possible.

"Oh, _Sherlock_!" It was a plea, as well as a greeting and it wrenched Sherlock's heart. _Stop it. Sentiment won't unweave this. I need to be in top form. The game demands it._

"Mrs. Hudson." It was a statement, and a question. He needed information.

"Sherlock, thank goodness you've come! I've been in here all afternoon. That terrible woman came in and made a mess of my kitchen! Oh, I'd just organized all my knitting supplies last weekend, dear, while you and John were chasing that awful arsonist all over the docks. You two worry me so much, getting into horrible-"

"_Mrs. Hudson._" Sherlock gave her a pointed look. She knew as well as he did that they could only fix this if Sherlock had all the information.

"Right, dear, I'll start from the beginning. I was making a pudding- you know how John likes a good pudding during a rough case- when I heard a knock on the door. I thought, 'Now who could that be, at this time in the afternoon?', because you boys both have keys, and no one usually calls after six unless it's a client, but I know you're not taking clients, not since this business with the bomber. Anywho, I go to answer the door, and it's this poor young thing, eyes all red from crying and such, asking if she could see you. Well, I told her you were gone, and I think John's sleeping upstairs, but I didn't tell her that- just something about him being occupied which she believed- but I offered her a cuppa while she waited. I figured John would need all his sleep since your rushing around never gives him a proper night's rest, so there would be no harm in having a chat with the young lady, seeing as how she was so distraught. I said-"

Sherlock's eyes glazed over as Mrs. Hudson rambled on about the visitor and the tea, and the little inanities of ordinary conversation. _She's obviously in a state. Probably worried herself sick. At least she's rambling instead of crying. Now THAT would be tedious. I'll just wait until she gets to the good bit._ Sherlock didn't have to wait long. It was soon revealed that the very same 'distraught young lady' was actually a 'no-good, wicked, hateful criminal' who had pulled a gun on poor Mrs. Hudson after not too long. _Gotcha, Molly Hooper._ His landlady described how Molly had her backed into the corner, while some men dressed all in black had come in and set up the yarn. For part of the setup, Molly had Mrs. Hudson turn her back while the men moved about the kitchen and laid more yarn.

"Bet she didn't think I'd notice, what with the guns and trespassing and all, but before she told me to turn 'round there wasn't a shred of yarn on my table, but now look at it! Absolutely covered!"

Now that she mentioned it, the table looked too bulky for the volume of visible yarn. Avoiding the tan strand and carefully testing the other pieces for connections, Sherlock began working his way through the tangle. _Better yet, I'll call John. He can come sort this, with his surgeon's skills or steady hands or whatever. That will give me time to contemplate…_ Sherlock whipped out his phone and dialed John. _Straight to voicemail. Hmm. _ Next best thing.

"JOHN! JOHN, GET DOWN HERE, THERE'S AN EMERGENCY. MRS. HUDSON'S HURT AND THERE WERE INTRUDERS. JOHN! JOHN HURRY!" No answer. No sound on the stairs. Not a peep.

"Maybe he's gone out. Before they all showed up, I mean." Sherlock nodded his acceptance of Mrs. Hudson's logic and went back to work. Halfway down the hole he'd made in the yarn pile, he caught a glimpse of something shiny resting under all that fuzz, and redoubled his efforts.

There was a knot in his way. The monster in question was a conglomeration of several strands wound about one another in the most illogical and frustrating manner. It was a delicate operation. Sherlock had to go string by string, extricating one from the next in a precise manner. Mrs. Hudson seemed to be holding her breath. He plucked a green thread from the mass. It started to give. Winding it slowly out, Sherlock separated a part of the knot. It would unwind. Another would follow. He dug his nails under the threads of a tight cluster. Purchase, at last, was gained. With two fingers, he pulled the strand. With painstaking precision, he coaxed the yarn out from its knot while-

There was a loud knock at the window. Sherlock jerked wildly back and tried desperately not to set off the whole lot. Mrs. Hudson, in the tension of the moment, shrieked. Sherlock nearly fell backwards onto the floor, but regained his balance in a very dignified manner. His knuckles were white. He pulled himself up from his half-leaning off-balance arc, shooting out from almost under the table. There was another knock. All Sherlock could see was a hand, balled up and rapping on the lower window pane. _It's too high for him to reach. Perhaps it's one of the homeless network with information. _ Sherlock leapt over the jungle-y vines of yarn and thrust the glass pane above the sink upwards. Two hands gripped the sill from below, and he grabbed at the wrists like a maniac. There was a hoarse yelp from below as the owner of the hands was hauled into the little kitchen.

"Lestrade?!" Sherlock's befuddled exclamation was accompanied with a frown and another rapid-fire question. "Why aren't you in the hospital? Do they really have such low standards and incompetent staff as to let a patient with a damaging concussion and two- _three_ bruised ribs out of their care within just a few hours?" He was still holding Lestrade's wrists as he scrutinized the Detective Inspector. _To be honest, he looks much better than before. Much less ghost-like and more of a pinky color than a sickly green. At least the nurses had the wits to give him a throat spray- raspberry flavoured, by the smell- disgusting stuff. Note: Never let John touch it._

Mrs. Hudson was smiling at the DI from across the room. He gaped at her over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Oh! Hello, Inspector! Lovely to see you again."

He gave her a confused grin. _What on earth is going on here? _He looked over to see Sherlock was still lost in thought. The consulting detective still held the DI at about arms' length, but enough was enough. Lestrade painfully cleared his throat to make his point. Sherlock released him, stepping back.

"What've you done to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen?" Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock blinked. _How to explain…_

"Molly. Molly was here. She did it."

Lestrade paled. His eyes flew about the room, searching for explosives, dangling blades, or pits of lava. Sherlock thanked his lucky stars that he had not yet uncovered whatever it was on the table, or Lestrade would have likely pounced on it.

"Calm down Lestrade, and pay attention. The flat is rigged with this extensive trip-wire system. Avoid the tan thread at all costs. Lestrade. Lestrade…?"

The Detective Inspector was standing stock still. His eyes moved rapidly from string to string.

"Lestrade. What are you doing?"

"Where's the bomb, Sherlock?" He hissed.

"_BOMB?"_ The shrill cry came from the closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Mrs. Hudson, based on our bomber's _modus operandi_ thus far, we can conclude that there is likely an explosive or incendiary device somewhere in the kitchen. I believe I can disarm it, once it is located."

"Oh, if that's all, then carry on dear. Inspector, would you like a cup of tea? You can help yourself. I would make you one myself, but, here I am." She gestured to the yarn screen in front of her. "Silly thing, this. I'd tear it down myself, but the wretched woman threatened me. Then threatened Sherlock, then the good doctor… Really, she was rather repetitive, if you ask me. 'Burn this, burn that, burn you'. She was full of it, if you ask me."

Sherlock held in a snort as Lestrade declined tea. The two men stood there a moment. Lestrade swiveled his head to get a look at the webby mess on the floor.

"What's the plan, then?"

Sherlock followed Lestrade's gaze and worked his way back to the table.

"I'm handling _this_." He gestured to the table. "Pretty sure it's the bomb. Can you, I don't know, stand absolutely still where you are? Don't move. I'll have this sorted in, oh, an hour or so."

Suddenly Lestrade rememebred why they might not _have_ an hour or so.

"Sherlock…"

"Oh, no worries, Lestrade. I'll have this wrapped up soon. Well, when I say 'wrapped up'-"

"Sherlock. John's-"

"-Probably out. Be back soon. After last night, he won't linger at the shops too long. Pubs are also unlikely, but then there's always the human tendency to consume alcohol in the most ridiculous and illogical-"

"Sherlock! John is missing!"

Sherlock's hands froze mid-tangle. His mouth opened. Words started to form, but died in his throat. Lestrade watched the gears grind to a stop. _Three words… Three words were all it took to shut him up. Well, in all fairness… _

"Missing? How could he be _missing? _Evidence! Lestrade, produce the evidence that led you to this conclusion. John has not been unheard of for twenty-four hours as of yet, so I don't quite see how you can declare him properly 'missing'," he spat the last word, "until you have _proof_!"

Lestrade took a breath. "Is his phone on?"

"What?"

"Have you called him? Is his phone on?"

"I-… no. No it isn't. But that's hardly conclusive."

"Maybe this will convince you."

"_Greg? Hey, mate, it's John. Sherlock got a weird note in the mail-"_

Sherlock listened to the message. Each word another bullet hole in his leaking boat. _John… John went looking for Lestrade at the festival? Hardly a logical choice, if one thinks things through… But, would John have made the Ornithogalum connection? Unlikely. Very unlikely. I suppose from an idiot's perspective, the fish market is a logical assumption. True, there are 'mobsters, fish, and boxes'. But, if John left before Molly visited at six, and after I left for the warehouse, then he should be back by now. He should be back by now, and his phone should be ON. John never turns his phone off without a reason. If Lestrade tried to call him when he received the message- approximately an hour ago, judging by the potency of the smell of throat spray and light buildup of dirt on his left shoe- then his phone should be back on now. Nothing John would be doing requires an inoperative phone for this long._

Sherlock took out his phone again and dialed. Straight to voicemail. _No. Not now._

"Sherlock, I need some information. If we're going to find John…"

"No, Lestrade."

"What?"

"_When_ we find John. But, we can't focus on that now. The more immediate concern…" He pulled a green string and the whole pile unraveled. As the yarn tumbled to the floor, a strange metal box was revealed. "The more immediate concern," Sherlock continued, "Is disarming Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table."

Lestrade started, and Mrs. Hudson gasped. The box was about standard shoebox size, with one tan and one red string running from a hole in the side. Sherlock made a thorough examination of the lid. After several minutes, he deemed it safe to open. As Sherlock lifted the lid, the room held its breath.

"_KA-BOOM!"_

Lestrade flinched violently and Mrs. Hudson screamed. Sherlock shrank back from the box, but when it didn't, in fact, explode he took a closer look.

"_Scared you, didn't I, Sherly dear?"_

A low growl reached Lestrade's ears. It surprised him to discover that its source was Sherlock.

"I have no time for your games, Molly. Oh, look at that! Now, I can see your little speaker. It will give me _such_ pleasure to smash it and incinerate the pieces."

"_I wouldn't touch it if I were you. One false tap and the whole room goes up. And your landlady works so hard keeping it all clean…"_

Sherlock's lips pursed in a hard line. "What do you want?"

Ecstatic laughter cracked out across the room. _"What do I want? People keep asking me, Sherlock, but they don't really mean it." _The manic glee was slowly seeping out of her voice, being replaced with something more sinister. Greg was riveted to the spot as the madwoman continued. _"They want to know what I intend to do. All these little squeaky questions, asking for favors, answers, mercy… Nobody cares what I want; they just fear what I will do to get it."_

A heavy silence covered the room. Tension, like the yarn, clung to everything.

"_But, I might as well humour you." _The little speaker squeaked and set the room back on edge. _"Sherlock, I already told you I'm going to burn you. But, as you can see, I'm trying to find more interesting ways to play with fire. What I want is to watch you dance- dance and dance until you drop. Until your legs turn to jelly and you collapse, the weight of your failure crushing you like an ant under my heel. I want to watch you fail, Sherlock. I want to watch you fail, and know you've been beaten."_

Sherlock began his impression of a gasping fish, mouth opening and closing without sound. His Adam's apple bobbed. Still nothing.

"I won't give you the satisfaction." The grunted retort dropped out like a weight. Almost no emotion seemed to be attached besides irritation, but there was something else. Lestrade felt like an intruder. Here Sherlock was, fighting for their lives, going toe-to-toe with the single smartest criminal anyone had ever heard of. Said criminal had threatened his world, and Sherlock was taking shots in the dark. This was his soul. Slipping mask spotlighted, Sherlock was exposing himself by trying to remain hidden.

This was a stand-off between two of the scariest people he'd ever met. Each had the countenance of a genius, superiority plain as day. Both were manic in their own way. Sherlock could bounce about a crime scene like a jet-propelled slinky; blurring here and there and all the while spouting out deductions. This Moriarty, Molly, or whoever she was, radiated a different sort of mania. It was the feeling you get when you meet a sudden drop. The fall didn't kill you, only the ground lurking below, lying in wait and ready to spring its trap. Lestrade was on the narrow ledge between the cliff face and the drop-off.

"_Suit yourself. Good luck with the knitting, Sherlock. I've got a date with the devil. Need to get my hair fixed and all. See you later, dear. Toodles!"_

* * *

The call disconnected. Her driver dared not a glance at the back seat. He knew where he had to go. It was his only job, getting the lady from point A to point B without a hitch. He had to steady his breathing. Tonight, he was being paid, coerced, threatened to make sure there _was _a hitch. The next turn was unexpected for his passenger. She didn't even flinch, just kept glancing into her compact mirror, checking her lipstick. _Blood red. Scary, that stuff. But then again, so's the lady._ He pulled into the deserted parking garage and made his way to the upper levels. Three black SUVs appeared out of the aether and tailed him to the roof. The driver parked in the space he'd been instructed, and waited. It _really_ wasn't pleasant waiting in a parked car with the scariest woman in the world.

She got out without skinning him first. That was a surprise. Unaware of what else he had to do, the driver unbuckled his seatbelt with a shaky hand. He slunk from his seat and out into the open air. The wind whipped the lady's pony-tail into the air. She stood, unfazed, and waited for the SUVs to hurry up and park. They were slow going, the driver noticed, but that was the intimidating part. One stopped, headlights trained right on the lady. The other two flanked the first. Men in suits and body armour poured out with mean efficiency. The driver wanted desperately to flee from the firing line, but his feet were frozen to the spot. After the suits with guns, another figure emerged from behind the blinding lights. To the driver, only a silhouette was visible.

The lady seemed to perk up at this new development. As the shadow paced forward, the lines of her jaw shifted. _I know that smile. It's the one sharks give you before they bite you in half…_ Then, she spoke, her voice ringing through the empty air.

"Ah, Mister Holmes. I was wondering when you would crawl out from under your desk."

**A/N: OOOOOH! Let's get ready to rumble! YEAH! I hope you guys liked this bit. I had a ton of fun getting Sherlock in and out of that yarn maze (which I've had to do before. It's much harder than it looks!) and getting Lestrade back into the thick of it!**

**Here's something relevant: ****I FIXED SPELL-CHECK. No more worries about horrendous misspellings! But, uh, if I did screw something up, please let me know... Thanks!**


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